


dream a little dream of me

by buckgaybarnes



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: .....technically, Clones, Dream Sex, Dreamsharing, Getting Together, Ghost Drifting, M/M, Pride and Prejudice References, Sexual Fantasy, Sexy Professor, Wet Dream, a brief appearance by a tentacle monster, a whole host of cliche horny things including (but not limited to), canon-typical bickering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-01
Updated: 2019-02-01
Packaged: 2019-10-20 04:34:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17615570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/buckgaybarnes/pseuds/buckgaybarnes
Summary: One moment, Hermann is curled up comfortably in bed, pajamas buttoned up to his neck, quilt pulled up to his chin, space heater angled perfectly towards his body, and the next—





	dream a little dream of me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ksci_janitor](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ksci_janitor/gifts).



> or: wetdreamsharing, but...lucid.......(this is my second fic ive posted in a week with consciousness-sharing but its FUN TO WRITE DREAMSCAPEY STUFF...)
> 
> written as per request!!!!!!

One moment, Hermann is curled up comfortably in bed, pajamas buttoned up to his neck, quilt pulled up to his chin, space heater angled perfectly towards his body, and the next, he’s watching himself bend a rather scantily-clad Newton Geiszler over a desk, flip up Newton’s small plaid skirt, and proceed to have his way with him.

Sex dreams about Newton Geiszler are nothing remotely out of the ordinary for Hermann, deny it though he may if asked, so at first Hermann is content to simply sit back and enjoy it (that is to say, sit back and let the eager fantasy Newton do all the work) when he realizes several things that are somewhat odd. Hermann has never fantasized about fucking Newton in these particular circumstances before, for example—though he does not object to Newton in a pretty skirt—and yet everything is extraordinarily detailed, as if it’s a fantasy he’s returned to many, many times. Hermann’s in a sweater and tweeds, like usual, but it’s something he doesn’t own, something far more... _professorial_ than what he usually wears; the room is some sort of lecture hall, though empty; there’s a name plate on the desk, and when Hermann angles it towards himself, he realizes it says _Professor Gottlieb_ (which is also, Hermann realizes, what Newton is crying out). Hermann has never fantasized about Newton as his student before.

Everything is also rather blue.

“Oh, hell,” he says.

Newton stops in the middle of a particularly excited push back and looks back over his shoulder. “Is something wrong, Professor?” he purrs, eyes wide and innocent. He rolls his hips back against Hermann’s prick. “I know I’ve been a _bad_ boy—”

“Newton,” Hermann squeaks, flushing horrendously. “I—er—I think I’m in your head.”

“What?” Newton says, brow furrowing, and then he panics. “Fuck!” He leaps away from Hermann and yanks up his underwear—oh, hell, Hermann thinks, it’s frilly—and begins frantically attempting to tuck in his unbuttoned crop top to the skirt. “Oh, Jesus, Hermann, I’m sorry, this is—” Hermann catches sight of an equally frilly bralette and casts his eyes to the ceiling.

“It’s,” Hermann says, and he means to say _it’s alright_ , except they both know he’d be lying. “Er. It’s. Not your fault?”

They drifted only a week ago, and Hermann’s found himself wandering the corridors of Newton’s mind several times since in confusing, bewildering dreams of childhood memories and adult memories and nightmares of the Anteverse, and he knows Newton’s experienced the same. This is not the first dream they’ve shared. (Hangover from the drift, Newton hypothesized, their brains working everything out. Lingering connection that only sparks to life when they’re unconscious.)

This is, however, the first dream they’ve shared like _this_.

“Please fix your pants,” Newton says, and Hermann glances down and realizes he’s still—well. (Newton imagines him far more endowed than he actually is. Hermann’s not sure whether to be flattered or not.) He tucks himself back in. Newton claps his hands together. “So let’s never talk about this again?”

Hermann opens his mouth to disagree—because _no_ , actually, he wants to know exactly what the hell just happened—and then opens his eyes to the cinderblock of his Shatterdome ceiling and a steady, persistent beeping. His alarm. He rolls to the side and swats at it until it stops, and then drags his hand down his face.

He’s hard.

“Newton,” he groans into his palm.

 

Hermann had long been under the impression that his affections for Newton were one-sided, that Newton could never consider him the way Hermann considers Newton, that he _hated_ Hermann, even, and then they linked their minds at the end of the world and Hermann was hit with a wave of every emotion Newton’s ever felt for him and everything got just a bit more confusing. Newton does not hate him, but Newton is not sure what he feels for Hermann. Newton is _worried_ of what he feels for Hermann, even now: worried that Hermann doesn’t feel the same, worried that Hermann will tease him for it, worried that confessing will make Hermann not want to be around him anymore. The easiest solution would be to simply _tell_ Newton he’s utterly besotted with him. That he far from minds the concept of having sex with Newton.

Hermann does not do either. They spend their entire work day in uncomfortable silence.

 

* * *

  

Hermann thought that, at the very least, they would not have to deal with another sex dream incident, that Newton would manage to deal with it, somehow, as a courtesy for both of them, and yet that night he shuts his eyes and finds himself in that damned lecture hall once more.

Only this time, _he’s_ the one bent over the desk in a skirt.

“How’s that feel, Mr. Gottlieb?” Newton’s gasping in his ear, and then he delivers a hard smack to Hermann’s ass, then another one to the other side. “Yeah, work for that extra credit, baby, take it like the dirty slut you are—”

“Er,” Hermann says, unsure if he should interrupt, because Newton seems very involved in this one (and it does feel rather nice), “Newton?”

“Dr. Geiszler to you, sweetheart,” Newton moans, and threads his fingers in Hermann’s hair and pulls his head back.

This does it; Hermann rolls his eyes. “Newton,” he says, and swats at Newton’s hand. “It’s _me_ , you moron. You’re doing it again.”

Newton freezes in place. “Oh, goddamnit, Hermann!” he exclaims, and pulls out of Hermann quickly. “Can’t a guy have a wet dream in peace?”

“Not when it’s about _me_!” Hermann exclaims back, scowling over his shoulder. “This is the second night in a row you’ve dragged me into your—your debased and entirely unprofessional fantasy.” He sniffs. “And cliche. Horrendously cliche. Sexy professor, Newton, really? You could at least be creative.”

“I’m creative!” Newton splutters. “I’m—listen, jackass, you’re in _my_ head. You don’t get to insult me in my head.”

“I will do whatever I bloody well please in your head,” Hermann says.

“Okay,” Newton says. “Okay, you wanna talk cliche, buddy? How about this little doozy I found the either night.” Their surroundings shift: they’re no longer in a nondescript lecture hall, but in their lab, and whereas before Hermann had been the one pressed up against something, now he finds himself crowding a very naked Newton against his chalkboard and shoving Newton’s skinny tie into his mouth to bloody _shut him up._

Hermann recognizes it, of course.

“This isn’t,” Hermann says, eyes lingering over Newton’s bare chest, the tattoos twining up and down his arms, far more detailed and realistic than anything Hermann was ever able to dredge from memories (when Hermann pictures Newton nude, he has but one frame of reference, a single incident in which Newton ended up stripped down to his undershirt and boxers in the spray of the emergency shower), “er, I mean to say—”

Newton waggles his eyebrows, and then moans Hermann’s name obscenely around the makeshift gag. “ _Fuck me_ , Hermann,” he pleads, voices muffled, neck bared—how the fantasy usually goes—and then he dissolves into giggles— _not_ how the fantasy usually goes.

“Yes, thank you, Newton,” Hermann says, face hot, “you’ve made your point.”

The gag is gone from Newton’s mouth, but his clothing is not back yet. “Hey, this is kind of fun,” he says, and then screws his eyes up tight. They’re no longer in the lab, but in what Hermann presumes to be Newton’s quarters. He shuts his eyes again, and then they’re in a deserted Hong Kong street. “Extreme lucid dreaming! _Cool_.”

“Will you put on some clothing?” Hermann says.

“Nah,” Newton says, and then he puts his hands on his hips, baring himself entirely “Why, are you distracted?”

“No,” Hermann lies, and Newton grins and takes a step forward. Hermann looks him in the eyes determinedly. “Not at all.”

Newton winds his arms around Hermann. “Not at all?” he says. “Not the tiniest bit?” Newton kisses his throat. “I’ve been in your head, Hermann,” he murmurs. “I'm  _in_ your head.” 

“Ah,” Hermann gasps, “er. At least—” Newton kisses up his neck. It feels shockingly real. “At least picture something more...comfortable.”

Newton nips at his throat; Hermann blinks, and he’s laid out on Newton’s bed, completely nude. There are flower petals and candles. He quickly pulls a sheet over himself. “Comfortable enough for you?” Newton says, smiling lazily at him. He’s curled up at Hermann’s side, under the sheet as well, and he tiptoes his fingers across Hermann’s chest. “This is cute,” Newton says, gazing from the rose petals to the candles. “Is this one of yours?” He pinches at Hermann’s nipple and rolls it skillfully against the pad of his thumb. “I don't think it's one of mine.” 

“Mm,” Hermann moans. “Er. I believe so.” It is. “Oh, Newton, that’s lovely.” He’s masturbated to the thought of taking Newton hard against the wall of the lab, but he’s also masturbated to the thought of Newton taking _him_ rather sweetly. And romantically. It depends on Hermann's mood: if he's enraged with Newton, or annoyed with Newton, it's Newton against the wall, if Newton smiles at him or touches his arm or pays him a rare, but genuine, compliment, it's Newton above him on his bed. This Newton is usually mildly out of character—he’s very gentle, and does everything Hermann asks and more—a juxtaposition made all the more obvious by how the   _real_ Newton acts now.

“You’re adorable,” Newton teases. “Of course you fantasize about sappy romantic shit like this.” He leans over and takes the nipple he’d been toying with between his teeth, and Hermann shivers. “Hey,” he says, suddenly, after biting at it for a bit, “I wonder what else we can do here?”

“How do you mean?” Hermann pants, feeling the loss of Newton’s mouth keenly.

“What’s the _weirdest_ fantasy you’ve ever had, Hermann?” Newton says.

Hermann blinks hazily at his lab partner. “I am not telling you that.”

Newton hops to his feet and stretches. “Suit yourself,” he says. “We’ll try one of mine.” He shuts his eyes and rolls his shoulders, like he’s—stretching, for something (and Hermann allows himself a _long_ ogling of Newton’s nude body, far softer and more gorgeous than anything Hermann’s imagination has conceived), and then the bed is falling away beneath him, the rosy candlelit walls giving way to strange neon purples and greens. They’re no longer nude, but clad in revealing silver jumpsuits, with silver thigh-high boots and space helmets to match, like something off a vintage pulp novel cover.

They’re also wrapped up tight together in a long, thick tentacle, a long, thick tentacle attached to a rather frightening-looking alien with a great deal _more_ tentacles. “Usually,” Newton says, conversationally, as another tentacle begins to creep up his leg, prodding under the fabric of his ridiculous getup curiously, “it’s just me in this scenario, and sometimes you come in and rescue me—and, you know, fuck me—at the end, but I’m fine with sharing.”

“Sharing?” Hermann chokes out. A tentacle brushes Newton’s helmet, almost as if it’s saying hello, and Newton grins cheekily.

“Too much?”

Speechless, Hermann nods.

They’re on the strange purple grass of the planet, alien gone, and Newton lays in front of him with his suit ripped in parts and his legs spread _wide_ apart. “This one, then,” he breathes. “It actually does star you. You’re the head scientist on our spaceship and a terrible parasite has latched itself to you, and the only cure is—” He waggles his eyebrows, and hoists his knees up a little. Hermann, pointedly, does not look down, but he can't help but be rather impressed with how involved and elaborate Newton's masturbation fantasies are; Hermann usually gets so worked up at the mere thought of kissing Newton that he rarely lasts beyond that.

“What exactly do you mean by parasite?” Hermann says, and Newton reaches into Hermann’s shiny silver trousers and pulls out— “Newton,” Hermann chokes out again, staring at the tentacle that has, evidently, taken the place of his prick, “why do I have—?”

“I _kinda_ have a little thing for tentacles, okay?” Newton says, and then hooks one of his legs over Hermann’s shoulder. “Usually you just rip my clothing off of me, but—” His costume vanishes entirely, and he winks and wiggles his hips. “Now come on, big boy, use that sexy alien junk on me.”

Hermann cannot stop staring at the tentacle. “Put it back,” he says.

Newton huffs and lowers his leg. “ _You_ put it back,” Newton says, but when Hermann blinks, he's back to normal. “You’re no fun. We can do whatever we want here and you’re limiting yourself to a normal boring dick.”

Hermann knows, logically, he does not need his cane here, but he wills it into existence anyway so he can leap to his feet and loom over Newton with the appropriate amount of fury. “I’m sorry my genitalia is _so_ disappointing to you, Newton. You’ll recall I didn’t even want to be here in the first place.”

Newton scrambles to his feet and rushes in front of him. “It’s not disappointing!” he says. “I love it. I love your awesome, normal dick. It’s great. I’m sorry.”

“Please stop talking about my genitals,” Hermann says, but he doesn’t push Newton away when Newton wraps his arms around him.

“All I meant,” Newton says, soothingly, rubbing his thumb over Hermann’s wrist, and the fight leaves Hermann, “is that, logically, we can do whatever we want here. _Whatever we want_. What do you want, Hermann?”

What does Hermann want? Hermann wants Newton gagged and pinned against his chalkboard. Hermann wants Newton making love to him in a pile of rose petals. Hermann wants—

They’re outside. Sun shining overhead. Trees swaying in the breeze. Some kind of meadow, Hermann thinks, with flowers, a small pond, birdsong. “Oh,” Newton says, sounding surprised. “This is nice.” Then he looks down at himself and snorts. “Seriously, dude?” Newton’s in an elegant lace-up white blouse, something directly from the historical period dramas that Hermann holds a secret burning passion for. He’s also completely soaking wet. “Pride and Prejudice?”

Hermann hides his—now bright red—face in mortification. “I was—er—very fond of the 1995 miniseries in my teenage years,” he says. And throughout his adult years; it got him spectacularly through his pseudo-breakup with Newton when they ceased writing to each other some decade back.

“Liar,” Newton says. “You just have the hots for Colin Firth. Here—” He scoops Hermann—who’s suddenly in period clothing of his own—up into his arms in one fluid motion, without even the slightest bit of difficulty. Hermann never realized how _strong_ Newton is. Or perhaps Hermann’s just significantly lighter in their strange dream world. Regardless, Hermann clings to him with veritable stars in his eyes and struggles not to run his fingers down that wet, inviting chest. His tattoos are visible through the fabric. “What’s the speech?” Newton says.

Hermann feels dizzy. “The speech?” he echoes faintly.

“Hermann,” Newton coos in an affected posh voice, stroking Hermann’s hair out of his face, “you must allow me to tell you how ardently—”

Hermann moans, unable to help himself. “Heavens,” he says. “This isn’t—er—this isn’t technically how the scene goes.”

“I’m cutting to the chase,” Newton says, and grins. He lays Hermann out on the damp green grass between stalks of daffodils and presses close to him, lips going to his neck. “Mm, Hermann, you’re _hot_ in this.” He tugs open Hermann’s red cravat and begins on the laces of his blouse. “But I’d like it better if—” Hermann’s breeches tighten a fraction, his cravat poofs into nothingness, and his blouse becomes just a tad bit more low-cut, exposing his pectorals to Newton, who immediately swoops in and begins biting bruises onto them.

“This isn’t period-accurate,” Hermann chides in a throaty gasp, and then moans again when Newton rolls his hips down and flicks at his nipple. (Damn him, he’s caught on how sensitive Hermann is there.) _“Ah_ —Newton—”

Sex here is strange. Hermann’s not sure what he expected; it is a dream world, after all, made of their conjoined unconsciouses, so (especially given Newton’s enthusiastic demonstrations) Hermann knows he should not be surprised at how everything passes with the time and logic of a dream. But it’s still jarring. Newton is pinching his nipples into hard peaks and rubbing their bodies together one moment, and in the next Hermann’s slick and open with his breeches around his ankles and his nails dug into Newton’s back as Newton fucks into him languidly.

“This is great,” Newton whines. He’s fully dressed, though very disheveled, and his glasses (chunky Buddy Holly frames swapped for round, thin-framed sort of spectacles) slip further down his nose each time he’s buried to the hilt fully. “This is so fun. Are you having fun?”

“Oh,” Hermann breathes, “oh _yes_ , Newton—”

Newton smiles down at him and laughs shakily. He’s framed by sunlight—dream though it may may—and Hermann’s dizziness doubles as if Newton’s swept him off his feet all over again. Newton’s beautiful. _Very_ beautiful. Hermann reaches up and touches his cheek, and Newton chases the gentle touch. “See,” Newton says. “It’s fun. This is fun.”

“It is,” Hermann agrees, and returns the smile. “I’m sorry for being cross. Would you like another go at it?”

Newton’s smile sharpens into a wicked grin, and the world tilts again, sunlight morphing into fluorescent lights, birdsong to the faint buzzing of machinery, the light perfume of flowers to ammonia and chalk and formaldehyde. “There’s been a terrible lab accident,” Newton murmurs, still rocking into him gently, “and you’ve been _cloned_.”

Newton moans, and Hermann—with a funny twist of his stomach—realizes there’s _another Hermann_ behind Newton, fucking into him with the same rhythm that Newton fucks into _him_ with. “Lovely Newton,” that Hermann coos in Newton’s ear, rubbing his hand over Newton’s stomach, “sweet thing, lovely thing, you’re so handsome, so smart—”

“Uh,” Newton says, bright red, “that doesn’t usually happen. I have no clue why he’s saying that.”

“I’m sure,” Hermann says.

Another Hermann joins the second Hermann's ranks, stroking across Newton’s pectorals and kissing his cheeks and the tip of his freckled nose. “Your theories are _so_ much better than mine, Newton,” that Hermann—Hermann #3, Hermann quickly dubs him—says. “I wish _I_ could be as brilliant as you.”

“Wow,” Newton says, staring at Hermann #3 with wide, almost bashful eyes. “Oh, Hermann—”

“Marry me, Newton,” a fourth Hermann begs, and then begins kissing Hermann #3 with far more tongue and loud, erotic moans than strictly necessary.

“Oh, Newton, that’s crass,” Hermann scolds, but he flushes at what Hermann #4 asked.

“Shut up,” Newton whines. “It’s hot. You’re hot, Hermann. You’re a hottie. Uh—” Hermann #2 pokes his head over Newton’s shoulder to join in on the kissing and Newton’s eyes nearly bulge out of his skull. “ _Wow_!” he says. He glances back and forth between the three of them and Hermann, and his tongue flicks out over his lips. “Hey, uh, you wanna—”

“Absolutely not,” Hermann says.

“Coward. I would,” Newton says, and—

 

—Hermann’s alarm goes off.

 

Hermann gets dressed in record time—scarcely taking even ten minutes—and hurries to the lab, where Newton’s _also_ dressed and ready for the day in record time. Hermann doesn’t even bother to wish Newton an awkward good morning (or give Newton the chance to wish him one instead) before he shoves him against the wall and kisses him soundly.

“Would you like to have dinner with me?” he says, as Newton stares at him in a daze, his mouth hanging open.

Newton nods.

**Author's Note:**

> find me on twitter @hermanngaylieb and tumblr at hermannsthumb. i post ficlets on tumblr a lot!


End file.
